


THESE HAPPY GOLDEN DAYS

by LaRondine (messier31)



Series: HEARTS OF GOLD [1]
Category: La Fanciulla del West (Puccini)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, California, Canon Compliant, Cowboys n Cowboyin, F/M, Historical Accuracy, Historical References, Operas, Puccini, The Girl of the Golden West, opera fic, reference to attempted rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:34:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24157459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messier31/pseuds/LaRondine
Summary: What might have happened between acts 2 and 3 of La Fanciulla del West-- and why Johnson left. Part one of two.
Relationships: Minnie/Dick Johnson
Series: HEARTS OF GOLD [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1743328





	THESE HAPPY GOLDEN DAYS

**Author's Note:**

> My love letter to the opera La Fanciulla del West, the Girl of the Golden West. A take on what might have happened between acts 2 and 3. While it's canon compliant with any staging of the opera, settings, characters and descriptions are based on the Metropolitan Opera's 2018 production. Part one of two. Written March-September 2019. I have a sneaking suspicion that some of my formatting got messed up when moving it from Docs to AO3, so apologies. 
> 
> To A, with all of my love, and to Ms. Westbroek- I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> xox

_ HERE WE ARE, AS IN OLDEN DAYS, THESE HAPPY GOLDEN DAYS OF OURS _

~~~

The first thing he remembered was the screaming— those frightened screams— certainly not his own. A shout— voices arguing— something was wrong— 

_ Minnie. _ His eyes flew open.

Darkness swam, his eyes unseeing, and pain shot up his arm, hot and excruciating. He gasped with pain and fear, but his body would accept no air. Panic seized him as he struggled to draw in a breath, his throat tight, his lungs on fire. 

A man’s voice— 

A door slammed, the sound eerily similar to the lone gunshot that had echoed in the frosty mountain air. The noise rattled in his teeth, just as before, and the seething pain in his arm and the sudden void of sound sent him spiralling back into time as the memory came rushing back.

**_Get out!_ ** _ and he did, knowing his fate, knowing that he had brought everything upon himself, and stepping out into the swirling snow wishing only that things could have been different—  _

_ A shot—  _

_ And pain, pain like he had never known, ripping through his shoulder, and stumbling backwards, to the only place he had left, to her, to the life he wished he had lived— hoping to see her, just one more time. _

_ Crimson blood, and her face, pale, frightened, still breathtakingly beautiful even as his vision greyed. The way she held him, begged him to stay, to never leave her, because she loved him, she loved him, yes, she loved him… and the darkness of her loft fading into black as the world went quiet and dark around him... _

His eyes flew open and air rushed to his lungs, and she was there. Her golden hair tumbled off her shoulders, cascading around him in loose curls. Even in the dark mountain night, lit by no more that weak candlelight, she was golden… oh yes, he had come for gold, and gold he had found…

She lavished his face with gentle kisses, fearless and jubilant, kissing his brow and cheeks, his eyelids and temples, and down his rough jaw and chin, peppered with stubble from his many days on the road. She paused, her lips oh-so-close to his own. 

In a most tender voice, she whispered, “We won, my love, we won…” and kissed him passionately on the lips. All pain seemed to fade from his body as sudden warmth crescendoed in his chest. He knew, in that moment, that she had been correct all along. He'd had his hour with her, the most perfect hour, and by his own admission should have been happy to die, victorious in love.

But instead, he fought to live, struggling to take a breath, and another, as she held his hand and told him that it would be alright. He struggled to live for her, for the promise of a new life, for the love she had given him, for a second chance. 

He raised his left arm and gently cupped her face, the only thing he could focus on in the haze of pain. 

Tracing her cheekbone with his thumb, he whispered, “My angel…” 

She brought her other hand up, her left hand still holding his right, and pressed it against his, holding his hand to her face. She closed her eyes at his touch and time stopped. There was only them, the softness of her face under his hand, the warmth of her hand over his, the steady beat of her pulse against his. 

Oh, if only he could live in a moment forever! But his breath was coming short again, each inhale little more than a shallow, painful gasp. His shoulder sent bolts of pain shooting through his arm, his head, his heart, right to his very core, a hollow, numb pain like little else he’d felt before. She was there, helping him to the bed, to her bed, pulling with all her might as she struggled to carry his near-deadweight. 

His vision was spotty now, delicate snowflakes dancing across his fading vision. The seizing pain seemed to engulf him, a wildfire spreading through his whole being. And still she was there, though distant and small, stroking his hair as the world quieted around him, soothing him as he fell into merciful darkness. 

~~~

For the rest of the night, Minnie did not sleep, kneeling by his side and wiping his brow. In his delirium, he murmured and cried— sometimes for her, sometimes for his mother, sometimes for nothing at all. Minnie desperately tried to clean the gaping wound in his shoulder, gently wiping the crusting blood away as he moaned in senseless agony. His cries mingled with the howling of the wind, terrible and haunting in the lonely mountain night. With great care, she bound the wound— a clean shot, thankfully— with strips of linen. 

As weak dawn light filtered over her cabin after that first night, he grasped her hand with his uninjured arm, bringing it to his mouth and weakly brushing her fingers against his lips. 

“Minnie…” His voice was raspy and dry as sand, and she leaned in to hear him.

“I’m here,” she whispered, brushing his damp hair off his forehead.

“My beautiful Minnie…” 

He blinked slowly, his eyes glassy. Taking a slow, stuttering breath, he gently squeezed her hand in his. As his grip relaxed, panic gripped her, icy cold:  _ don’t leave me. _ But as she rested her head on his strong chest, his heart still beat, and his breath still rose and fell, slowly and steadily, in time with hers. 

_ We won. We won. He’s mine. He’s mine. My love. My love. My love. _ On and on as shadows crept across the floor, the rising sun burning the fresh snow off. 

Her chest fluttered with a feeling that might have been hope. 

~~~

He ran a fever for three days following, his skin burning hot even as the temperatures dipped lower and lower, the bitter wind whipping through the cracks in the corners and finding its way to numb every tired bone in Minnie’s body. 

On the second morning, there was a knock on her door. 

Too tense to read, she’d been instead stitching up the tears in Johnson’s road-weary overcoat by the dying light of the small fire. The sudden noise startled her, and immediately she was on her feet, reaching for her rifle and rushing to the door. 

Lightheaded from fatigue, she stumbled, catching herself as she pressed up against the cold door. Her breath fogged the glass panes of the window, and panic gripped her as she stared at the hulking silhouette inches away.

_ He’d come back.  _ She scrabbled for the rifle, ready to yell, to fight, to shoot if she had to. But as the glass cleared, she could see— it was not Rance, but a rosy-nosed Nick, bundled in furs, his beard white with snow and ice. He grinned cheerfully back at her. 

With a sigh of relief, she set the rifle down and unlatched the door. She shivered as the icy wind swirled up her nightgown and rustled her hair, sending goosebumps racing down her back and legs. Nick shut the door behind him, bumping a large basket on his arm into the doorframe as he turned. He shrugged off his heavy coat and together, they sat down at her table, confidants and friends, just like so many nights tending bar together at the Polka. 

At first, Nick was quiet; he simply surveyed the scene— the blood, the cards still lying on the table, and the dark form of Johnson on the bed— as Minnie looked on quietly. After a moment of contemplation, he raised an eyebrow curiously but did not inquire further. Instead, surprising Minnie, he chuckled.

“You really rattled old Rance, Minnie!” He said gaily, finally breaking the silence. She looked up, startled, as he laughed in wonder. “He was furious— I’ve never seen him so mad! Stormed into the Polka, late as hell, and demanded a bottle of the best whiskey we had. I served him the cheap stuff, of course, but he was so seething mad I could’ve served him lantern oil and he would’ve knocked ‘em back anyways!” 

She laughed, delighted at the image in her mind, and enthusiastically regalled Nick with the story of the gamble and her game of poker, casually letting slide any mention of her socks or what might have been hidden inside. Nick was, after years of tending bar, the best of listeners, and Minnie was cheered by his comically overdramatic reactions of shock and amusement as she explained the risk and triumph against Rance. The weight of pain and worry of the past days slowly seemed to lift off her shoulders, and she welcomed the change in mood.

When the conversation inevitably slid back to Johnson, though, the darkness began to cloud over her again. 

“How is he?” Nick asked at a lull in the conversation, gesturing to the motionless man on her bed.

She shook her head. “The shot was clean through, in and out, and the bleeding’s stopped for the most part. But he’s feverish, Nick, he’s delirious and hot, and I’m so scared there may be sickness in his blood, something no-one can heal.” She’d seen it before, in injured miners, after the rare duel, or an attack by highwaymen, and their cries, their fevers, their convulsions and howls of delirium haunted her. She knew that should a man go to sleep with the poison inside of him, he might never wake up. 

But she’d prayed, begging God not to take him from her, and still Johnson’s heart was strong each time she checked, beating steadily under her fingertips. 

Nick put a comforting hand on her arm. 

“He will make it through this,” he said. His confidence warmed her, though it did little to allay the undercurrent of fear still running through her. 

Nonetheless, she smiled feebly, heartened by his kindness toward her and the thought that, no matter what, she had an ally through the whole mess. 

“Thank you, Nick. Please keep him in your prayers.” 

He nodded, then paused as another thought jumped to mind. 

“Verity sends her love,” he said, shifting to open the large basket on the table. Inside, swaddled like a newborn child, were two loaves of honey-brown bread, as well as a wrapped chunk of salted pork, a wax-sealed jar of preserves, and five brown eggs; all were gifts from Nick’s wife. A plump, kind woman, Verity was quite reminiscent of a mother hen herself. She’d often invited Minnie to dinners with her family, and lovingly admonished Minnie for living alone in the mountains, so far from the town and the rest of the world. And now, they had thought so warmly of her in her time of need, and provided such generous, kind gifts!

“Thank you, thank you, Nick.” She wrung his hand, her heart swelling with gratitude. “You’ve been so kind, always so kind to me…” 

“It’s nothing at all,” he said, and his cheeks turned pink with faint embarrassment. “I’ve known you for many years, and I trust you completely, Minnie. If you say you trust him, then I see no reason why there should be any ill will between us.”

Minnie could do nothing but stare in wonder, deeply touched. 

~~~

She was singing. He had never heard her sing before.

Her voice was lovely, sweet and clear like the mountain air, as bright as a young mountain chickadee. 

Later, he would confess to her his firm belief that her voice had been what had reached deep down, deep into his soul, and roused him from his stupor, finally saving him from the endless, dreamless sleep. On hearing this, she’d blushed rosy pink and covered her face, charmingly flustered by the compliment.

Yes, in that first waking moment of consciousness, her voice was all he knew, and he thought her to be an angel.

He opened his eyes, watery from sleep and sickness, and blinked in the sudden cold light. His entire body ached as he turned his head stiffly toward the song, and Minnie was there, bathed in sunlight, bright from the snow outside. Sitting at the small table by the window, she softly sang a camp ditty as she combed her long golden-blonde hair with a wooden brush. He watched her quietly, strangely calmed by the simple, repetitive stroke of the brush through her hair as her high, lovely voice floated through the air. 

_ When I first came to this land, I was not a wealthy man.  _

_ So I got myself a horse, and I called my horse Diamond of course, _

_ And I got myself a farm, and I called my farm Muscle and Arm, _

_ And the land was sweet and good, ai-di-ai-di-I did what I could...  _

It was an old song, one that he’d known as a child, a song about the frontier. He listened now, as a child would listen to a mother’s lullaby, as she worked her way through the verses, each time adding a new line. In the bright light, her face looked younger; momentarily lost in her own world, burdened by her worries no more, there was a softness in her that he hadn’t seen before, not with the fear and passion of those first meetings. She was unguarded and at peace with herself, singing from joy alone. He felt almost a voyeur, watching her from that dark corner, so intimate was the moment. 

The song was getting longer, working its way through a whole barnyard of whimsically named animals. He closed his eyes to listen, trying to focus on anything but the increasing sense of incredible pain in his right shoulder.

_...I got myself a duck, and I called my duck Outta Luck _

_ And I got myself a hen, and I called my hen Born Again, _

_ And I got myself a cow, and I called my cow No-Milk-Now, _

_ And I got myself a horse, and I called my horse Diamond, of course, _

_ And I got myself a farm, and I called my farm Muscle and Arm. _

_ And the land was sweet and good, ai-di-ai-di-I did what I could...  _

_ Oh, when I first came to this land, I was not a wealthy man. _

_ So I got myself a wife, and I called my wife Love-of-my-Life—  _

_ Curious _ , he thought. He’d always known the line as “ _ I called my wife Run-for-your-Life” _ . But yes, it seemed fitting that Minnie should sing of marrying the love of your life, nothing less. The thought lingered in his head, and only after a moment did he realize she’d stopped singing. He opened his eyes again, blinking in the sudden bright light.

Her face was turned away from the window now, thrown into shadows as the dazzling light poured in around her. In the seconds before his eyes adjusted, silhouetted in the dance of pure light and shadow, she looked like a ghost. _ Or an angel.  _ He blinked again without thinking and her face swam into focus, his eyes slowly adjusting to the brightness of the world once more. 

Her eyes were wide and shockingly blue when they connected with his own. She simply stared at him for a precious moment, and he couldn’t help but wonder idly if the words “ _ love-of-my-life _ ” still hung in her ears, just as they did in his. 

And then she was up, crossing the room in a single breath, kneeling by his bedside in an instant.

“Shhhh, shhh…” she murmured into his ear. “I’m here, it’s okay, breathe. Shhh, it’s okay…” 

He tried to answer, his tongue dry as dust and the bitter taste of illness still coating his mouth. After a moment, she stood and poured a glass of water, which she held tenderly to his cracked and grateful lips. As the world sharpened into focus once more, he took a deep breath, trying desperately to ignore the pain in his shoulder, like someone had grabbed the very framework of his body and was twisting, squeezing and pulling him apart. But she was here, and as she set down the glass and continued stroking his hair and face, he felt that he owed it to her in some way to be okay. She had rescued him, saved him, put herself in danger— somehow, he was sure, she had been in danger, because he had opened his eyes at her screams that first night— and he would repay her by living for her, if nothing else.

“My Minnie… my flower…” he whispered, and his heart ached with happiness at the way her face transformed, worry melting away into joy, relief, elation. She put her head down and took a shaky breath before looking up, past the roof of the cabin into the heavens themselves, whispering,  _ thank you, thank you, thank you _ . 

The time passed slowly, bright morning light creeping into high noon before slowly melting back into the rich glows of late afternoon, sunset, and the cool dimness of twilight. Each moment was made longer by the pain in his shoulder. He gritted his teeth and tried to breathe, fighting against terrible, muscular ache. It was like nothing he’d felt before, and he wished it upon no-one else. 

Minnie was, in his opinion, a most skilled and delightful nurse. She seemed very aware of his pain, so empathetic he wondered if she had treated other injured miners in the past or the like. With tenderness and a sweet, concerned demeanor, she sat in her rocking chair, pulled up next to his bedside, and simply talked to him, reading stories from the shelves above her bed. Many were romantic stories, and he smiled watching her blush as she read to him the dramatic and often amorous declarations of love. It was endearing beyond belief, as though he was privy to something that she had shared with no-one else. The way her voice paused as she turned each page— the way it would rise in pitch as she came to the more passionate scenes— the way she’d almost whisper the most tender kisses, as though respecting the privacy of the characters— it was sweet and wholly in-character for the woman who had saved her first kiss for her true love, who believed love was for life. 

She read late into the evening, only pausing briefly to serve a homemade dinner of biscuits, chicken and beans, which he ate with his left hand, propped up with pillows in her bed. Minnie had pulled her rocking chair over, and she remained next to him, eating with her plate propped on her knees.

As the evening faded into a cool mountain night, she’d put away the book and blew out many of the candles in the cabin before stepping out of view to change into her nightgown. Kneeling by his bedside once more, she assured him that the trail would be cleared by the next day. “And we’ll be able to get medicine and whatever else we may need,” she added with a small smile.  _ She has the sun in her smile _ , he thought, looking at her with great affection in his heart. 

“Oh, Minnie, you are an angel. Truly,” he said, taking her hands in his, “you have a wonderful heart and a kind soul. I’m blessed to have you in my life.” 

She pulled her hands out of his and pressed them to her face. “Oh, you flatter me, Dick, but really, I’m not— ” 

But she doubted herself! Oh, couldn’t she see? Why couldn’t she see herself as he saw her, as she was? 

He struggled to sit up, leaning forward to talk. “Minnie, please, don’t say that, don’t believe that. You are more beautiful, kind and sweet than you could ever imagine, and I never believed I could have you in my life. You  _ are _ a blessing, and I love you.” 

She fell quiet, her eyes wide and misty. After a lingering moment, she leaned closer. In a huskier voice, full of emotion and promise, she asked, “May I— may I kiss you goodnight?” 

He smiled. “I would be honored,” he said warmly. 

She swept her beautiful hair to the side and leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead before sitting back in the rocking chair. 

“Goodnight, Dick,” she said after a moment, sweet and demure. 

“Goodnight, Minnie,” he responded, his voice full of adoration. 

Though they had said their goodnights, Minnie did not stir from the chair. There seemed to be some debate happening within her, and Johnson wondered if she planned on sitting by his bedside all night— had she done that the previous nights? He had some vague memory of consciousness, pain, and her, next to him— he’d taken her hand. Or had that, too, been a dream? 

Absorbed in his own thoughts and hazy memories, he was mildly surprised when Minnie muttered ‘Oh, hell’ to herself— for he had never heard her curse before— and even more surprised when she leaned forward and kissed him tenderly on the mouth. 

She was intoxicating, more than any whiskey in the world could ever be, leaving him breathless, his heart fluttering from the very nearness of her. Her hair spilled over her shoulders and all around him. He could smell the lingering sweetness of her soap, breathing in jasmine and beeswax and the clean air of the mountains that hung around her like a gentle perfume.

They separated, Minnie beaming, shy yet eager. Though his head was spinning, he was surrounded by a wonderful calm. Like the ocean after a storm, the world seemed to clear, and his heart was peaceful once more. For while Minnie made him giddy, ecstatic, electrified— she also brought his worried heart respite, soothing his aching soul, bringing him peace. She was the polar opposite of the life he’d sought so hard to escape, and she was the future he longed to have— honest, authentic, loyal, serene. 

She placed a third, final kiss on his forehead and stepped away. Kneeling on the quilt and bearskin, she said a prayer before extinguishing the candle. Darkness swept across the cabin, velvety and smooth, though he could still see her silhouette in the silvery moonlight.

As he fell into an uneasy sleep, his last vision of her lingered in his mind: lit by golden candlelight, warm, beautiful, her lips pursed to blow out the tiny flame. In her white nightgown, she truly looked like an angel. 

~~~

And so a little rhythm fell into place. As soon as the trail was cleared, Minnie resumed her work at the Polka, each morning rising before dawn to begin breakfast and to heat water for washing on the stove.

It was curious at first, having Johnson in her cabin. For years her home had been her sanctuary, her refuge from the rest of the world. It was home to all of her worldly possessions— though small in number, they were uncountable in value— her books, her Bible, her rose. And though Wowkle had spent considerable time at the cabin too, she had never been a permanent fixture— she had her own lodging, of sorts, with Billy Jackrabbit and the other Indians. 

It had always just been Minnie and Minnie alone, and that had been enough. 

Johnson had been the first man to set foot in her cabin for…  _ Well, the first man, ever!  _ she’d mused to herself one early morning, watching lacy frost creep up her windowpane as she stirred black coffee. Or at least, the first man she’d ever invited— she didn’t quite count Billy Jackrabbit, of course.

Outside, the breathtaking pines had also been kissed by white, the ice clinging delicately to each needle of the enormous trees. A squirrel, grey as wood ash, scuttled through the frosty grass, leaving a looping path as it gathered remaining berries and pine nuts in preparation for the oncoming winter. 

The air was warm with the rich, warm scent of her coffee and baking biscuits. He was beginning to stir, not quite awake yet. With few other options, she’d simply elected to immerse him fully in her life— her daily chores, her errands, her comings-and-goings and her habits. He’d watched as she and Wowkle cooked, did laundry, and cleaned her cabin. As fall faded to winter, Wowkle returned to her village and her family, and Johnson slowly regained his strength, he helped in the little ways he could: sweeping, folding stockings, and keeping her company as she prepared meals. It all seemed strangely normal, strangely familiar, like a scene out of a story she’d once read; the thought made her smile. 

He stayed in the cabin when she’d go down to town or to the Polka for the night, at first because it was dangerous and uncomfortable to travel, and then to avoid a nasty confrontation with Rance. The dislike still lingered, and while Rance had so far kept his word, Minnie still feared the mutual dislike would lead to conflict. So Johnson stayed, passing the quiet evenings alone, reading, or, as his arm began to heal, whittling all sorts of creatures, rough at first, but growing in character and resemblance to their real-life counterparts, a humble menagerie of birds, wolves, bears and deer. Each evening she returned, and though tired, she enjoyed the quiet nights spent with him immensely. 

On clear nights they’d sit together on her porch, Minnie with a coffee, Johnson with a cigar, and they’d watch the swirls of stars overhead; on overcast and rainy nights, they’d read until the rain’s hum sang them into drowsiness, a lullaby soothing them into a content sleep. 

The dogwoods and aspens blushed with their usual fall colors, the towering pines remaining steadfast and timeless. The days were cool, the nights crisp, but the cabin was warm and bright, and life was good. 

~~~ 

Winter came early to the Cloudy Mountains that year, and it was determined to make its presence known. Wind whipped coats off shoulders and snatched hats off heads, and snow blanketed every surface in sight. The mines were closed, and the men retreated to the Polka most days, lamenting that the season for mining had been unduly short. 

Minnie had grown accustomed to the grumbling of the men, and it seldom bothered her, for secretly she was delighted by the yearly arrival of snow. To look out from her high little cabin and see nothing but the rich pines, dusted in the most delicate layer of white— to ride her pony thought the rolling, untouched drifts, each glistening like diamonds in the cool California sun— to sit by the fire with coffee, listening to the silence of the falling flakes, cozy and unburdened— it was divinity, her paradise on earth. 

However, enamored by winter as she was, even Minnie could not deny the ruthless cold. The Academy of the Polka was in full session, and every morning she could, Minnie set off down the snowy mountain trail. Each evening, she returned to her cabin, despite snow, dark, and biting winds, for she knew Johnson waited for her when she arrived. Nights on the mountain were the worst of all; the cold ate to her very bones and left her each morning stiff and numb in the fingers and toes. On the worst nights, an uncaring, ever-present chill seemed to lurk in every corner of her cabin. Her hands shook with shivers each morning as she added logs to the potbelly stove in against the wall. In her bed, tucked away in the corner, Johnson suffered silently, never complaining about the cold, never saying a negative word. Though Minnie slept closest to the fire, he refused to accept any more blankets from her; she was simultaneously frustrated and flattered by his stubbornness. 

As snow fell, melted and fell anew, the cabin that had once been so full of  _ her _ began to slowly change as each wove the other into the fabric of their life. Her saddle was now accompanied by his, and for the first time the second chair at her dining table received regular use. It became a normal, though still secretly exhilarating, sight for Minnie to see Johnson’s black coat hanging next to hers, his pistol side-by-side with her rifle on the table every night. Each evening, they talked over a light dinner. Into the night, they kept each other company; Minnie would read out loud, Johnson listening and watching her face in the candlelight. Other nights, despite the chill, he would take her hand and lead her in dancing, spinning her around the tiny cabin as she giggled like a child and stepped on his feet. 

It was on one of these nights that he’d wished that he had a guitar, for it was easier to dance to music than to silence, their only accompaniment the cruel winds outside. 

“You play?” she asked. They’d stopped dancing and stood holding hands in the centre of the room. Quite nearly the same height, his face was breathtakingly close to her own, his deep-brown eyes and dark lashes just inches away from her; in the candlelight, she swore she could see flecks of gold in the irises. 

He nodded and smiled. “Yes, my father taught me as a boy, me and my brothers. Some of my happiest memories are of my family sitting around a campfire, several of us playing guitars, and my sisters and mother singing.” His eyes took on a warm, faraway look as he recalled the scene, but the glow quickly faded from his face. “That was before we knew, of course. My father’s business was never a topic of discussion in my family, and for good reason, it seems.” 

Minnie said nothing; it was rare that he talked so openly of his father. He continued at her silence, his voice soft and contemplative. 

“It seems so odd now, to think of him…” His tone changed, becoming just a little rougher, a little harsher. “I hate him, you know, for what he did to people, and what he forced me to do for my family, or at least I try to. But it’s so hard to think of him as anything but my father, the man who would carry us on his shoulders, who taught me to play guitar, who’d carve little wooden dolls for my sisters and horses for my brothers and me…” He looked at her. “Isn’t it strange?”

She paused, searching for a suitable response, wondering if one was even desired. But Johnson decided for her, taking her hand in his and sending her twirling before catching her again in his arms. 

After a second, he simply added, “But I digress. And my dear, you dance so beautifully I daresay we don’t need any music.” She laughed, and the brief darkness cleared with ease.

The rest of the evening passed without incident, though their toes were almost numb by the time they’d decided to retire for the night. It was, she believed, one of the coldest nights she could remember, or at least in the icy darkness it seemed that way. The wind whipped through every crack it could find, eating the warmth of the fire and howling in a most unearthly manner. 

Later, though under the thick quilt and curled up on her bearskin, Minnie shivered nonetheless, her whole body trembling to the point of exhaustion. When the wind ceased momentarily, she could hear the tired, pained breaths of Johnson, and she could only imagine the pain he was in, though he seldom said a word in complaint.  _ How awfully his shoulder must ache _ , she thought, remembering the same pain she’d felt in her leg years before. 

In her exhaustion, an idea formed in her head, a bold, irresponsible, certainly reckless idea. It was the same sort of unexpected spontaneity that had first possessed Minnie to accept his offer to dance with him, that had encouraged her to invite him to her home, that had challenged Rance to a game of poker for both Johnson's life and her own.

She mulled the idea over, eyes open but unseeing in the darkness of winter. Every second she lay in the unforgiving chill, it seemed more and more enticing, more and more desirable…but it was foolish:  _ if you give a man an inch, he’ll take it a yard _ , she remembered sleepily. But certainly Dick would do nothing imprudent, she reassured herself. With that, she sat up. The quilt slipped off her shoulders and left her skin vulnerable to the biting cold in the cabin. 

In two steps she’d crossed the distance between the bearskin and the bed, and now she stood, looking down through the darkness at the sleeping figure of Johnson. He was curled on his side, like a sleeping infant, so as to not lie on his still-tender shoulder. For a moment she simply watched him rest, watched the flutter of his eyelids and the movement of his chest under the blankets. But the cold was persistent and demanding, and so she took a breath and proceeded. 

She flung her quilt over his before pulling both back so she could slip onto the narrow cot. He turned his head dazedly— half asleep, probably thinking he was still dreaming, or that something was wrong and she was trying to wake him up, and asked, “Minnie?” His voice still slurred from sleep, his eyelids fluttered in the dim light. 

“Minnie?” he asked again. “What are you— ” 

“Shhh,” she hissed, much sharper than she’d intended to. “I’m cold,” she added, as a means of explanation for her thoroughly unexpected actions. As they settled in, the boldness of move finally caught up to her, and she realized that her impulsive move might be mistaken for something wholly unwarranted. Quickly, she amended her previous statements. “Now, Mister Johnson,” she said, hoping the name would remind him of her mock sternness towards him the first night, “don’t you go doing anything rash or improper…” 

Though her back was to him— pressed up against him, really— Minnie could feel him laugh gently, and she pictured his self-assured yet good-natured smile easily in her mind. He slipped his arm over her hip, wrapping it gently around her waist.

“Of course, Minnie,” he responded sleepily, and she smiled to herself. The new sensation— a man, pressed against her back, with only nightclothes between them— was both strange and exhilarating. She closed her eyes and snuggled deeper into the new warmth— both physical and more than.

~~~

It became their little morning routine, in a way: on the coldest nights, she’d slip out from under the quilt on the old bearskin and into his arms, their shared warmth stronger than any mountain storm. 

Often they’d tell stories before the sun rose: Minnie of her childhood at the roadhouse and the memorable patrons she’d encountered there and at the Polka, and Johnson of his family’s life on the road, travelling as far south as Mexico and as far east as the unorganized territory. She’d recount the time that a man claiming he could contact the dead visited the Polka and declared it to be haunted by the spirit of Meriwether Lewis, and after Johnson had finished laughing, he’d tell of golden sunsets over the ocean, and green fertile fields past the mountains, and watching native woman weave their blankets on looms. 

Minnie noticed, after some time, that he rarely spoke of the six months that he’d spent in the shadow of his father, a liar, a thief. The question of Nina Micheltorena, too, puzzled and burdened her. She’d wanted so desperately to believe him, when he’d promised he did not and had never known her. But there was the picture, and there was the indisputable proof that they had known each other. And so the doubt remained, heavy in her heart and mind, slowly growing into ugly jealousy with each passing day. 

She’d never felt such a thing before. The feeling of possessiveness— that fierce desire to hold Johnson to her chest and let no-one near, to shout at the world that he was hers and hers alone— was new and unfamiliar. With each kiss he gave her, she couldn’t help but wonder if he had done the same to Nina. The way he stroked her hair, the way he smiled at her, the way he said goodnight each evening— had Nina stolen all of these moments from her first?

The worries gathered heavy in her heart, leaving her torn; she wanted passionately to know the truth, though simultaneously she feared what the answer might be. 

Only after several weeks did Minnie finally gather the courage to bring Nina Micheltorena up once more, and still she waited, the question forever on the tip of her tongue, always searching for the right time. 

The question slipped into her mind one evening in late November. She’d returned from the Academy that day to a simple dinner of skillet bread, beans, and squash, the smells warm and homey. After dinner, she and Johnson simply sat and watched the sun sinking over the distant mountains, as they usually did. Minnie spoke with great earnest of the lessons she’d taught the miners that day, Johnson listening to her every word. 

She’d let her head rest on his uninjured shoulder, at ease and content as they watched the sun set over the mountains. His hand, for the first time, had passed over the front of her thigh, warm and gentle. She felt his fingers trace over a deep gash, noticeable even though the thick wool of her riding skirt, and he stopped in surprise. 

“Minnie?” His soft-spoken question was full of concern and curiosity. “What’s this from? How did— were you shot?” 

She looked up, quiet for a moment. He stroked her leg comfortingly, delicately passing over the scar each time, as she thought. 

“If I tell you, will you tell me about Nina Micheltorena?” She couldn’t help but notice her voice darkening on mysterious woman’s name, and the way Johnson’s hand stalled once more in surprise. Her stomach roiled with sudden anxiety at the boldness— and risk— her question held.

_ Would she be able to accept if he told her— if the truth was that he— that Nina Micheltorena—? _

Her frantic thoughts were brought to a halt as he gently kissed the curve of her neck and chucked. 

“You’re nothing if not persistent, my love. Yes, if you insist, I will tell you about Micheltorena. But I’ll warn you, Minnie: it is not something I’m particularly proud of. She is part of the past that I strive, every day, to leave further and further behind…”

She dropped her right hand to her side, intertwining it with his own against her thigh. She squeezed gently. “I love you, Dick. Nothing you say could change that.” She hoped her words were true.

He looked out through the frosty glass at the vast mountains, the rock a rich purple in the quickly setting sun, the wide swaths of snow brilliant white. 

“Nina Micheltorena…” he mused. Minnie searched his voice for a hint of what was to come: nostalgia? bitterness? A longing for lost love? But there was nothing, only quiet introspection.

“She was a dancer, yes, and she was quite the flirt. We met only six months ago— she’d been a smuggler, you see? Her and several other girls; they’d get the stolen goods, hold them, and ultimately pass them along to— to the gang.” 

So there  _ had _ been more to the silly girl after all! At times, Minnie had sworn she’d seen a dark glint in those blackened eyes before, and it seemed now that she’d been right. Her association to Johnson— no, to  _ Ramerrez _ — was plausible, but still the question, that awful, terrible question remained. 

“She had, we’ll say, an interest in me that went beyond… strictly business-related. An interest that I was willing to entertain, for a time…” His voice trailed off, and Minnie felt her heart drop. So it had been true, what she’d feared, what she’d suspected. 

“But Minnie,” he squeezed her hand tightly; she felt his desperation in the gesture. “Believe me: nothing came of it. I never— we never— nothing, and I swear this on my life, nothing ever happened.” 

Though she believed this, still she did not understand. “But the picture— the letter— why did she betray you, if you never…” The words tumbled out of her mouth, disjointed and uncomprehending. “If nothing happened, Dick, and I desperately want to believe that, but if nothing ever happened, why would she do that?” Minnie looked up, meeting his eyes, his face cast in brilliant gold light as the sky darkened into rich, velvety reds and coppers. 

“She was an intensely jealous girl, and dangerous in that way. When her affections were not reciprocated, she grew cold and unforgiving, and several weeks ago a routine, ah—  _ transaction _ went sour. She swore it would be my downfall, that I’d regret ever scorning her… the next morning, I left for the Cloudy Mountains. And you know the rest, from there on.”

“That’s all?” She prayed that was all. 

Much to her relief, he nodded.

“That’s all, Minnie.” He was quiet. Somewhere close by, an owl called, breaking the stillness of the oncoming twilight. “I apologize, with my whole heart, for deceiving you. I promise that there is nothing else I’ve concealed. You must understand, I regret with everything I am the time I spent as Ramerrez, as a bandit. I would do anything to erase that, to forget those times, to change what I once was.” 

She kissed his cheek chastely. “We cannot change the past, but the man you once were means nothing to me. He is gone, shot dead by a bullet on a snowy fall night. Now there is only you, a good man.”

His eyes closed as her forgiveness washed over him. 

~~~

After the unexpected emotion of his complete honesty about Nina, the mysterious scar on Minnie’s leg slipped completely from Johnson’s mind, and it was not until several days later that he thought to bring it up. However, deliberately, he did not speak of it; though he grew ever more curious, he sensed that it was a sensitive subject. Minnie had had every right to ask about Nina— in fact he was surprised she did not sooner— but he felt it perhaps inconsiderate to ask about her leg again. And so he waited, knowing that she would speak of it only if she felt comfortable. 

As he expected, she did, one cold Sunday afternoon. They’d just returned home from a short ride through the mountain trails, for Minnie had guessed that it might be their last chance to ride in the mountains before all of the paths were completely blocked by snow in the coming months. Noses rosy and spirits high, they’d settled into their chairs with a pot of coffee, and from there it was only a moment before she brought it up. 

“Several days ago,” she said smoothly, “you asked about the scar on my leg. I’m afraid I never gave you an answer. Would you still— do you still want to know?” 

He nodded and smiled, before quickly dropping the smile, fearing it was inappropriate for the situation. Instead he simply held a neutral face and prepared to listen to her story. 

“To answer your question, Dick… yes, it is a gunshot scar, much like your own. I— ” 

Her voice broke off briefly. She swallowed, but when she spoke, her voice was steady. She did not tremble, and her gaze was mild but commanding. 

“There was a raid— about two, no, nearly three summers ago. Bandits. They came in the night, but not late enough, for Nick and I were still in the bar, and the men were still in town,” she explained cooly. “Nick had been in the back, and I in the loft, when the doors swung open and a handful of men entered. 

“It was late, and I had not been expecting any more visitors. I leaned over the balcony, and of course that’s when I realised what was happening. The bandits were startled to see me, clearly believing that the Polka had emptied for the night. For a moment, we did nothing but start blankly at each other, each taking in the other. I said something— something like, ‘ _ What do you think you’re—  _ ’, but I never finished. That’s when the first shot rang out— ” 

His head jerked up. Though he’d suspected as much, the thought of her even being shot  _ at _ was chilling, much less her actually being injured. It seemed impossible, paradoxical, even, that the cold reality of a bullet could even touch her, for she was angelic, softness and light. But even he underestimated the cruelty of a bullet. 

“That first shot missed— it struck somewhere behind me. But my rifle was behind the bar, and I only had my little pistol. I hadn’t a clue where Nick was, or if he was even alive, and I had no way to get to my gun…” She looked up, her eyes wide and bright. “I ducked behind the beam, next to the staircase, waiting for Rance, for the men, for anyone to come— ” 

Her voice cracked for the first time, and Johnson could sense the fear and desperation, surely just a sliver of what she had felt as bullets buzzed around her. 

“I shifted, so I could see what was happening, if Nick was out there, anything— and that was my folly. I felt a shot hit the bannister— another exploded into the wall behind me— and the next thing I knew, I’d been hit in the leg, and the world seemed to shatter before me, nothing but fractured light and noise. I vaguely remember sliding down the stairs, trying to stay low, and there were shouts all around me. I thought I was going to die…” Her words hung in the air, heavy and stark. 

He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it.

“Oh, Minnie…” he murmured. In return, she brought his hand back towards her, pressing it against her cheek, savoring his touch. He half expected the story to end there, but to his surprise, she pushed forward, opening her heart to him, sharing all her pain, her terror, her desperation.

“In that moment,” she continued, “when I was falling, and the universe seemed to be nothing but shadows and pain, yelling and the smell of gunpowder— I knew that I had seen the worst of the world, and that I would either pass and be judged before Him, or that I would live, knowing that I had survived the tarfires of hell and come out, alive. I resolved, in that instant, that should I live, I would never be afraid for my own life again.

“And so I downed two shots of whiskey and bit a rag as they cut my skirt with a knife and poured another shot onto the bloody mess of my leg. I watched as they tried to pull the bullet out— but I’d been crouching, and so the bullet had traveled up— ” 

She took his hand in her own and placed it on her skirt, just over the scar, before guiding it delicately up the top of her thigh, following a second line he had not noticed before, carving a long trail, higher and higher. Like the tail of a shooting star, it seemed to stretch onwards, until she stopped abruptly, about six inches from where her thigh became her hip. In any other circumstances, it would have been an exceedingly sensual moment, but the seriousness of the situation snuffed out any other thoughts in Johnson’s mind. He could only think of her, afraid, alone, bleeding out on the floor of her saloon as chaos exploded around her. He squeezed her hand tightly, trying to soothe the memories of her pain. 

Pressing his fingers lightly where the slender scar tapered to an end, she softly continued, “That’s where they cut it out. I was told later that it took them only three minutes to find it, but it seemed like a lifetime. I’d just been shot, and they were following the path of the bullet with a knife…” She grimaced, the mere memory of the pain still strong enough to make her wince. But she looked up once more and took a deep breath, before adding, “But then I remembered, and I swore that I would not be afraid.”

And then he understood. He’d underestimated her, too, it seemed, for her goodness was not based in naivety, and it never had been. She had been forged and quenched in the harshness of the West, and she had come out stronger, purer and more resilient than before. She had survived one battle and would live for many more. 

He took her into his arms. “Do you ever realise how strong you are? How brave?” 

She shook her head. “Oh, but I’m— it’s not like that. Out here, we simply do what we must.” 

_ We do what we must.  _ A curious phrase. He had used it more than once, saying it to himself as he rode with the gang— we do what we must, to survive, to feed our families— all while betraying himself and everything he believed. He’d thought it a necessary sacrifice. So to hear the quiet voice of Minnie repeat the phrase, not to justify cowardice, as he did, but to dismiss her own strength— it was extraordinary, unbelievable, absurd. 

He told her this, and again she shook her head, this time laughing. “You say such funny and marvelous things sometimes, Dick. I’m hardly brave, and I’m certainly no angel. Just a poor girl, with a poor girl’s education, running a saloon and living off whiskey and gold, with little more than the clothes on my back and dreams of the grand future. I’m a gambler and a cheat. We’re all alike out here, doing what we must. I know that I can handle anything and anyone who comes my way, as we all must.” 

“And I am just a thief and a bandit, running from my past and into an uncertain future,” he responded after a moment. “I’ve stolen, I’ve robbed, and I’ve lied. Worse than that, I betrayed my own values, and worst of all I betrayed you. But Minnie— you know as well as I— the world can be cruel. Every day is a fight, and sometimes an unjust one. You have the strength to carry on, and I draw from that, Minnie; you give me strength. Life is beautiful when I have you by my side, and you freed me from the chains that bound me to a life I couldn’t bear. Aren’t we quite a pair?” 

She looked at him thoughtfully, her blue eyes deep and dark as the ocean, before she smiled, a wide, elated smile that melted his heart. 

“We’re quite a pair, as you say,” she said affectionately. After a second, her face turned introspective. “Love is wonderful like that,” she mused. “It gives us the strength to do amazing things— fight, survive, find our salvation.” 

“Indeed,” he replied warmly. Love— her love— had pulled him from the fires of hell; it had given him strength to leave the bandits, to survive the bullet to his shoulder, to wake up each morning and face the day. God. He would be nothing without her, still only a coward and a thief. But here he was, living the life he’d fantasized about having for so long, waking up each day to see her, falling asleep each night with her in his arms. 

They fell quiet.

“Thank you for being such a wonderful listener, Dick, really,” she murmured sweetly. 

“No, thank you, Minnie,” he said quietly after a pause, breathing in the very nearness of her. 

He wasn’t sure what exactly he was thanking her for— for telling him about the scar, for trusting him even after she’d learnt the truth about Nina, for taking him into her life, for saving his soul. 

She looked at him and smiled before kissing him softly, brushing her hand against his face with great tenderness. He felt her heart racing as he put his hands around her torso, bringing her closer, and in that moment, she was all he could see, all that he knew. And he knew she understood. 

~~~

Hidden within the months of somber cold in the mountains was one glowing day— Christmas. Advent saw the Polka decorated in colorful swaths of ribbon, strings of nuts and popped corn, and boughs of evergreen. The aromatic branches filled the saloon with the sweet and woody smell of pine, bringing a jovial atmosphere to the room. The days were short and the nights were cold, but Minnie worked to fight the gloom that loomed over the winter months. Each morning school was in session, the little academy of the Polka. Minnie would read from the Bible, or pick passages and short psalms for the men to read to each other. 

Christmas came, bright and gay, full of carols and cheer. After Christmas Mass, Minnie returned to the Polka, preparing for the feast later. Tables had been pulled together to create one long table, with chairs stuffed in, enough to accommodate all the miners. That night, they’d wait eagerly, grinning and rowdy as little boys, for Minnie to bring out the two golden, plump turkeys, piles of potatoes and roasted carrots, and bowls of rich gravy. 

She’d started the tradition several years ago, after her first or second Christmas at the Polka, when there were only a handful of down-on-their-luck miners at the camp, before there was even a dream of gold. She’d looked into the weary, hard eyes of the men as they’d nursed whiskeys through the long winter. So many had left families, wives, children, their whole lives behind just for a chance at prosperity, a better life. She’d felt their pain, the longing for a change in luck, the hopelessness and despair of the dark nights and cold, wet days. That first winter came and went quietly, but she swore that the next year, no one would be alone on Christmas. And so was born the annual dinner at the Polka. 

Now, smiling, she looked down the long series of tables at the several dozen men who smiled back at her. There was a joy in their eyes, a sense of family, of togetherness, that was more valuable than any gold they would ever find. 

They’d clustered pine boughs, candles and several loaves of bread along the centre of the table— nothing fancy, but the effort still had a charming effect nonetheless. Yes, there was something wholly magical about the rosy glow of the candlelight. The rich smells of turkey, vegetables, and the sweet and ever-present perfume of pine filled the air, and the men hummed carols gaily to themselves. Minnie, as hostess, sat at the head of the table, and the men filled themselves into the rest of the chairs. There was the usual scuffle of who had the right to sit next to her playful competition, nothing more, though she eyed the men watchfully to make sure it stayed that way. 

This year, the competition was unusually subdued. Minnie had expected the opposite, for she’d broken tradition and reserved the seat next to her for Johnson, leaving only one side open. She’d expected a fiercer competition because of it, but the men, in an unusual show of intuition and respect, realised their new position and backed off. For this gesture, a collective ceasefire of sorts, she had deep admiration. 

Still, a worry pulsed through her veins as the clock ticked later and later and the spot to her right remained empty. By eight o'clock, nearly the entire table had been filled, the food was almost ready to be served, and Johnson had yet to show. 

She was a moment away from bowing her head to recite grace when the doors swung open. Johnson entered, dusted in snow, looking devastatingly handsome. His face split into a wide grin when he saw her, and he hurried over. She could almost feel her heart fluttering with joy as he greeted her, kissed her hand, and took his spot to her right. Everyone lowered their heads and silence fell as Minnie began grace. 

The dinner was cordial and quite festive in its atmosphere. There was good-natured cheer and laughter in the air, and she noticed with no small satisfaction that Johnson seemed to get along well with the rest of the miners. After the food had been finished and the dishes had been cleared, the men all gathered together, full of song and laughter, singing carols and drinking songs. 

As the evening wore on, Minnie found Johnson by her side once more. They sat together at the edge of the room, watching Joe lead a chorus of merry miners in several rounds of Deck the Halls. Her head rested on his shoulder, and he took his hand in hers, interlacing their fingers. 

The gesture, though simple, sent her in an instant back to Soledad, a child once more, watching the way her father smiled at her mother— the way her mother’s foot touched her father’s under the card table— the way they’d squeeze each other’s hands a second longer after the Lord’s Prayer— and she knew for certain: this was love.

She held that warmth close as they walked back to her cabin, hand in hand, late in the winter night. Fluffy, light flakes were just beginning to drift down from the heavens as they kicked the snow off of their boots and entered the cabin. 

They removed their heavy overcoats, and Minnie turned away to relight the candles, filling the cabin with glowing golden light. After a moment, Johnson laid a gentle hand on the small of her back. She set down the candle in her hand and turned to see him standing there, beaming, a broad basket in his arms. 

Her hands flew to her mouth as she gasped with delight. “Oh, Dick!” 

Inside the basket, he had nestled small oranges and candies around a stack of newly-bound books. With hushed reverence she removed the books— six in total, all neatly bound in soft, embroidered cotton. Speechless, she flipped through the gorgeous books, eyes flicking through the neat, printed text. They smelled of fresh ink, the woody, sweet smell of paper, and citrus, for the delicate scent of the tangerines still lingered on the pages. 

It was as though he had looked into her heart and seen exactly what she had desired. Though the good-intentioned boys at the Polka had often given her presents, little trinkets of sorts that they’d bought from passing traders and merchants, they had all been barely disguised attempts to woo her and win her favor. This was different— a present from the heart, not because he wanted her, but because he loved her. 

After a pause, she tore her gaze from the precious books in her hands and looked back up. Johnson watched her, beaming, looking almost boyish in his joy. She mirrored his smile, putting down the books and going to him. They embraced. 

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you,” she murmured in his ear. She cupped his cheek, turning his face to her, and kissed him on the lips. 

A moment later, breathless, she pulled back. “Thank you, really.” 

“It makes me so happy to see you smile, to see you so happy. That’s the best present that you could ever give me.” 

“Oh, but— ” she started, then broke off. Feeling daring, she turned her tone slightly flirtatious. “Oh, really?”

Johnson raised an eyebrow, and she turned in a flash of her blue skirt, blushing. She darted into the closet, re-tucking the thin cloth she’d wrapped the bulky package in so as to keep the surprise. 

She’d bought it weeks before on an impulse. A peddler had passed through the camp, stopping at the Polka, and on top of the soap, kettles and bootlaces, she’d spotted a dusty guitar tucked into the back of the wagon. He’d asked fifteen dollars for it— outrageous, really, she was sure she was being swindled— but Sonora had seen her eyeing it, and many of the men had come forward to press a nickel, a half-dollar, even a bill into her hand without a word, and soon she’d had enough, combined with money from the till, to haggle with the man until they settled on eleven-fifty and a shot of whiskey. 

And there it had rested, covered in a sheet and tucked behind a sack of potatoes, until now. 

She presented it to him with a shy smile on her face, and a thrill ran through her as she saw Johnson’s eyes widen, a look of wonder and disbelief dawning on his face.

All he could do was simply whisper, “Oh, Minnie,” as he took the guitar from her. 

The top was pale spruce, the side and back rosewood, and though dusty and unloved, she could see the former splendour the guitar had once held. Johnson cradled the curvy guitar in his arms, running his fingers over the frets and tracing the sun-like pattern around the soundhole. 

Nervously, she tugged on her finger as he looked over the guitar. When he met her gaze once more, she asked with earnest, “Do you like it? Oh, I hope— ” 

He set the guitar down at the table and took her into his arms.

“Oh, Minnie, it’s perfect. It’s more than I could ever ask for, more than I deserve. You’re more than I deserve, my darling.” 

She smiled shyly and covered her face with her hands to conceal her rising blush, but he took her hands in his own. “No, no, don’t do that. You’re perfect when you smile.” He kissed her forehead, and Minnie could feel her face reddening more, but her heart sang with elation and she beamed back at him, meeting his own brilliant grin. 

“Will you play for me?” she asked. 

He paused and frowned slightly. “Well, I haven’t played for many years. I’m not quite sure I remember how…” 

“Oh, I’m— I’m— ” she blinked, unsure how to respond.  _ But surely he had said he could— or had she misunderstood? _

On seeing her baffled face, Johnson laughed, to her immediate relief and amusement.

“I’m only joking, Minnie. Of course I’ll play for you. Come sit by the fire?” He nodded his head at the potbelly stove against the wall. Minnie accepted his offered hand and sat on the ground, warmed by the fire, as Johnson picked the guitar off the table and knelt down next to her. He tweaked the strings, plucking each repeatedly and turning the corresponding pegs to tune the guitar. After a quiet minute, accompanied only by the crackle of the happy fire in the potbelly stove and the cricket-chirps of guitar notes, he looked up, satisfied. He strummed a chord, as smooth as honey and more lovely than anything Minnie had ever heard.

She watched in awe as he began to pick delicate arpeggios across the strings. Nothing, however, could have prepared her for the moment when he opened his mouth, and started to sing— 

_ Silent night, holy night, _

_ All is calm, all is bright _

His voice was a husky baritone, rough, perhaps, from disuse, but pleasant and musical nonetheless. She joined him, her clear, sweet voice a perfect counterpoint to his. 

_ Round yon virgin mother and child. _

_ Holy infant, so tender and mild, _

_ Sleep in heavenly peace, _

_ Sleep in heavenly peace... _

Outside, the world was painted in soft white. 

~~~

Spring came subtly, with each day just a little longer and each sunrise just a little warmer, until the day came that Minnie woke and realized that the mines would be re-opening soon. Out of her window she could count the delicate, sunshine yellow of new buttercups and the bright red cones of snowplants poking out from the receding snow, cradled all winter under a blanket of pine needles. The creekbed had swollen with water, gushing with fresh snowmelt and rain that nourished the new pale green leaves, as yet unkissed by the hot California sun.

For the first time in months the trail to a high mountain meadow opened, and Minnie led Johnson and their horses up the steep mountain trail to an idyllic prairie, full of young, green grass for the horses. High above the world, it seemed that the entire, golden West was laid out before them. Vast snowcapped mountains clustered the horizon, some dappled with a patchy quiltwork of vibrant reds, oranges and violets. When Johnson asked about the curiously colored swaths of landscape, she couldn’t help but beam as she described the seemingly endless fields of mountain wildflowers, in bloom now and for months. 

“When the creek goes down,” she said, “we’ll pack a picnic lunch and ride out, high into the mountains, and sit among the flowers and the trees and watch as clouds go by, so close you can almost touch them as they pass— ” 

She pantomimed reaching out, stretching her fingers into the blue sky as though she truly meant to capture a passing cloud in her hand. From behind her, she felt Johnson place his hands on her hips as he looked over her shoulder towards the great frontier unfolding before them. 

“I like that plan very much,” he said before kissing her cheek. She laughed with sheer joy, suddenly grateful for all of the beautiful, wonderful things that He had given her—her life in the beautiful Sierras, and the Polka, and of course, the man next to her— such wonderful things she had done nothing to deserve! 

The sunshine was warm and the air was fresh, and she could do nothing but laugh, the happiness in her whole and unable to be contained. 

~~~

She returned later that night from the Polka, still in an uncommonly good mood, her lungs full of fresh mountain air, her heart full of song. They’d left the horses in the pasture for the night, certain nothing would disturb them in the high, secluded meadow, and so she’d made the trip back to her cabin on foot. 

The stars were bright, unobscured by any rain clouds so characteristic of early spring. Only the mighty, stretching pines filled the unending sky, seeming to reach forever into the glimmering darkness. It was easy to see a friendliness in the pale glow of the night sky, a sense of comfort and familiarity in the sparkling, innumerable stars. When she was a child, Minnie had believed that each star was a soul, high in heaven; as she walked, it was easy to indulge in the childhood belief once more. She followed the well-trodden path easily, her eyes on the breathtaking stars spilling across the sky above her while her legs guided her without a second thought up the mountain she called her home. 

Her cabin was the only sparkle of light on the otherwise dark mountain; Johnson had waited up for her, as usual. They were in the midst of a quiet dinner when Minnie’s ears first picked up the quiet sound outside— the snap of a branch, perhaps the whisper of a step. 

Such sounds were not uncommon in the wilderness around her cabin— the woods were rich in wildlife, and it was a regular sight to see mule deer, mountain lions and even the occasional black bear. 

She mentioned this casually as they were wiping down the dishes, expressing her hope that it had been a deer. “They’re absolutely darling with their little white bottoms and funny little antlers,” she mused, but the look of sudden concern on Johnson’s face sidetracked her. 

“What?” she asked. 

“You said you heard branches breaking in the woods. Are you sure it was a deer? Did you actually see a deer?” He took her hands in his own, his face grave. 

“Well, no— ” she stammered, confused. “But there are always deer, really all sorts of animals in the woods, Dick. Especially in spring, when the bears come out of their dens and many animals have pups.” 

He conceded that that was true. “But we still must be careful,” he added. “To many, I remain a wanted man. Especially with the remaining members of the gang— many would not hesitate to put a bullet through my head.” 

She nodded and placed his hand on her chest, his palm resting on the hem of her blouse. She was sure he could feel her heart beating under his fingertips, racing from his gentle touch, but she instead focused on the butt of the snub-nosed pistol now pinned between her sternum and his hand. 

“Anyone who dares would have to kill me first,” she whispered, suddenly breathless at his touch and the boldness of her promise. But as the words fell from her mouth, she knew they were nothing but the truth. 

“Oh, Minnie.” His gaze was affectionate, but there was a seriousness that Minnie had never seen before in his face. “I would never, ever let that happen.” 

The intensity of the moment startled her slightly, and she turned her head away, sudden tears gathering in her eyes. Johnson put his arms on her shoulders, pulling her gently into his embrace, and she rested her head against his. 

There was another noise outside, barely percible, but the change in Johnson’s demeanour was instantaneous and visible. He stepped back, his eyes darkening, his shoulders tightening. Minnie’s first thought was that of a spooked horse, but no— this was less frightened, more  _ alert _ , like a hawk who had just heard a field mouse. 

“Dick, it’s— ” she started, but he quickly brought a finger to his lips. 

“Blow out the lights, Minnie. Just leave one, and shield it with your hand. We have to make it look like there is no one here.” 

She did as she was instructed, extinguishing all but one of the candles and lanterns. 

“And Minnie?” he added. “Grab your rifle.” His voice was quiet but foreboding, and a chill of real fear fluttered low in her gut for the first time at his tone. He slipped his pistol back into his belt as she retrieved the long, slender rifle from the bedside. 

Sitting in the near dark, lit by a single flame, time seemed suspended. Only the slow dripping of the wax betrayed the increasing lateness of night. 

Sticks continued to snap around the cabin, distant at first but slowly moving, circling, closer and closer. 

When the first candle had burned down to barely larger than a thumb, it seemed the world was beginning to quiet. The shuffling of light footsteps in the woods had ceased, and now the night was full of the assortment of the usual sounds of spring. The wind was smooth and serene, and occasional owls hooted in the distance. Far away, dogs yipped and barked into the dark night. 

Minnie watched the glowing, creamy wax drip smoothly off the candle. “Whatever— or whoever— it was, it’s gone, Dick,” she said, though she kept her voice barely audible nonetheless. 

He shook his head. “They’re waiting,” he said grimly. “For a sign,” he added a moment later to her unspoken question. “There will always be a sign, to either proceed or to abandon the— to abandon whatever they’re doing.” 

Right. She’d forgotten that these were not just random thieves, but Ramerrez’s—  _ his _ — old men. The thought that these were men that Johnson knew, men that he had once known, frightened her more than any other so far. There was certainly danger in bandits— she of any people could and would attest to that. But the fact that there were personal vendettas at play— revenge, hate, or worse— added a new element of danger and unpredictability to the mix. 

He lit another candle, and they resumed their silent vigil. 

~~~

She’d closed her eyes— oh, just for a second, just to rest her head for a moment, for it was so late now— and it seemed as soon as she had, her head was jerking up again, and Johnson was whispering to her. 

“Get up, Minnie, Minnie.” She blinked, momentarily disoriented. 

He continued whispering quickly. “We have to go, now. Grab your rifle and blow out the candle.” 

“What— what happened? Did you hear— ” she stammered. 

“Yes,” he replied tensely. She looked around the cabin as she stood up, watching the candlelight reflect off the panes of her windows and the jars above her stove, illuminating the books above her bed and the spindles of her rocking chair. The shadows danced and combined into unearthly, monstrous forms. 

There was a whistle, clear in the otherwise-silent mountain air. In a flash of clarity she recognised it as similar, or even the same as the whistle they’d heard that fateful night at the Polka. 

Johnson turned to her. “We have to get out.  _ Now. _ ”

Fear coursed through her as she snuffed out the candle, leaving the cabin in complete darkness. With her rifle in one arm, she grabbed Johnson’s hand and they slipped out the door into the cool, dark night. Keeping low and close to the weather-worn pine walls of the cabin, they made their way around and behind. For the first time she saw something frightening in the woods. The silhouettes of trees that had once been so familiar to her were transformed into figures, ugly and lurking. Each footstep as they snuck around to the back of the house was like a cannon blast, a signal fire, letting every bandit for miles know her location. Eyes were everywhere, following, watching, waiting. She could barely breathe. Low clouds were rolling in, and they seemed to suffocate her, heavy and foreboding.

Much to her horror, the rustling in the woods slowly resolved into footsteps. From their position behind the house, Minnie could not see who approached from down the mountain, but she could hear the paces of the men on the path. Just as it seemed the steps could not get any closer, they stopped, and Minnie assumed they had stopped at or near her door. 

There was momentary silence, and she gripped her rifle closer. Johnson put his arm around her as they waited with bated breath. 

The sound of bootsole on wood now reached her ears— they were on the porch. The steps continued to shuffle around, mere yards from where she and Johnson were crouched in the dark. They were trapped— if the men decided to walk around the house, they would certainly be spotted, but she and Johnson could not run, for if they could hear the bandits’ footsteps, surely the bandits would hear their movements just as clearly. 

Words now echoed into the night— a man’s voice, rough and low. Though she strained to understand, the words made little sense to her, and it soon became clear the words were not English. 

Another voice, and then a third. She pressed into Johnson and he hugged her to his chest but looked away, into the night. Only after a moment did she realize he was trying to listen to the men. 

There was a pause. Her heart hammered in her chest, her pulse like a thousand drumbeats in her ears.

At the sound of her door creaking open, her gut twisted with anger and fear.  _ How dare they—  _ She could still hear the voices of the men, disembodied and unintelligible, though fainter now through the walls of her cabin. Johnson pressed an ear to the thick pine. They waited in silence. 

From time to time, she’d turn her head, trying to see his face, but there was nothing but shadow. 

They still could not see the men, and so they loomed in Minnie’s mind, growing into fearsome and fantastic spectres as they noisily searched her home. Each footstep on her creaky wood floor was that of a giant, each strange word that of a demon. But she soon realised that her childish imaginings were only making the situation worse. These were only bandits. She’d been in similar before, and had managed to come out alive and fighting each time nonetheless. Still, she struggled to reconcile the anxiety fluttering low and ugly in her stomach. But her heart beat against her pistol and Johnson held her hand, and so she knew that she would be safe. 

The night dragged on. She’d just begin to let her guard down slightly, letting her tense muscles relax, letting herself breath— a mistake. All of time seemed to suddenly fracture into a million, sparkling pieces, an explosion of light, sound and movement.

A shout, a crash, the tinkle of shattering glass. 

Her door swinging open— 

Johnson, pulling her into the woods, stumbling over roots in their haste, his palm hot and his grip tight with desperation. 

Men, spilling out, their yells jarring and sudden in the quiet night— the bitter odor of lantern oil rising into the spring night.

Panting, trying to breath, her breaths mingling with his, as the smell of smoke began to dance, twisting and curling, sinuous and dangerous as a snake. Confusion, chaos, a conversation she could not understand, and the sound of boots on gravel growing ever-more distant into the night.

A dreaded glow: the hellish sunrise of fire, licking up from under her roof. The golden and scarlet flames were beautiful and terrible as they reached ever-higher into the unending heavens, casting a warm, campfire’s glow onto the forest, and the air was rich with the sweet smell of burning pine. She wanted to scream, to fight, to run after the men, but she found herself paralyzed, unable to do anything but sit and watch in disbelief and horror. 

Johnson, too, was condemned to sit and watch. Though he’d looked frantically, there was no water, and, propelled by the flammable oil and easy access to the dry timbers of the cabin, the fire had quickly grown past any hopes of putting it out. And so they simply huddled together, watching, disbelieving. 

The flames were massive, a hellish inferno, brighter and bigger than the sun itself. The smoke was heavy and grew bitter, and her eyes watered until tears were pouring freely down her cheeks and she turned away, into Johnson. Clinging to him, she pressed her face to his chest, breathing in the lingering smell of soap on his shirt as it met the biting smell of the black smoke that surrounded them. The roar of the fire was all she could hear, a thundering, massive noise— the sound of timbers breaking, falling, crashing in a shower of sparks. The sound of an entire life, burning up from a single spark: it was all gone, just like that. 

_ It was all gone _ … She choked back a sob. Her books— she hadn’t even read all of the ones he’d given her for Christmas— and his guitar, and her rose, and all of their clothes and blankets and money and on and on and on until she could barely breathe, her lungs tight from smoke and panic and loss. Her whole life was burning, turning into thick black smoke before her very eyes. 

Fire and darkness. All she could see was fire. 

It ate up her vision, filling her eyes with light and heat. She could not see anything but the flames. 

With a boom like nothing she had ever heard before, a large timber fell, and she closed her eyes and prayed it would be over soon.

But the nightmare refused to end, burning on longer and longer into the infinite darkness. Despite the nearly intolerable heat from the fire, the night was still cool. It was not until Johnson shifted to wrap his long coat around her that she realized she was shivering, her whole body trembling from cold, from shock, from fear. She watched until she could no longer, but even as her eyes closed she could see the flames dancing before her. He wrapped his arms around her but said nothing.

The fire burned on.

~~~

He had not slept well that night— it was a miracle he’d slept at all, really— and when he opened his eyes, he thought he’d still been dreaming some dark, twisted dream. 

The smell of smoke was strong, clinging to his clothes and lingering in the air. It seemed that the clouds themselves had swallowed up the mountain, for he could see little past his feet, so dense was the fog that hung around him. For a moment he felt nothing but complete disorientation; he could not see where he was— there was nothing but grey and the rich smell of wood smoke. 

Someone was crying, and it hit him like a shotgun blast, the horrible memories ripping through him once more. 

He stood up at once, his shoulder screaming from the rough night spent on the ground, and stumbled down the muddy slope, out of the trees, and into the smouldering clearing where the charred skeleton of Minnie’s cabin stood. 

All of his breath left his body at the sight, horror and anger filling his heart. _ He would kill whoever…  _

He still could not see her, but her sobs were louder now. Again the nightmarish quality returned: it was completely silent in the grey pre-dawn light, with only his footsteps and the unearthly cries echoing through the endless fog. 

He stepped through a gap where the northern wall of her cabin had once stood, crushing and extinguishing a weakly flickering ember with his boot as he ducked under a fallen timber, once part of a mighty pine, now little more than blackened firewood. It was still uncomfortably hot in the cabin, though most of the fire had burned out. Water dripped and hissed on the still hot embers and logs as smoke and heat mixed with the cold, damp spring air. 

And there she was, kneeling in the smouldering remains of her home, still wearing the muddied blouse and leather riding skirt she’d worn when they’d fled last night. Her back was turned away, but he could see her shoulders trembling as she mourned the loss of nearly everything she’d known. Carefully, avoiding pits where the timbers of the floor had burned through completely, he crept to her. 

White ash dusted her hair like snowflakes, turning gold to grey. As he crouched down beside her, she did not look up but instead fell into him, letting him accept all of her weight. He simply held her as she cried. 

She shook, her entire frame wracked with sobs, and he tried to soothe her, stroking her hair and making quiet noises, like he’d calm a spooked horse. He held her close, wishing he could make the hurt go away, wishing that it had all been a dream after all. But he looked around at the burnt-out shell of the cabin around him, smelled the charred wood and cloth, the eye-watering sting of kerosene still lingering, and knew that no nightmare would ever be as real or unforgiving as this. 

As the sky lightened, a new worry worked its way into his heart: the man’s parting words from last night still burned brightly in his mind:  _ Don’t worry. They’ll be back eventually. We’ll get the traitor and his bitch from the saloon before the week’s end… _

There was no doubt that they were still in the area, still perhaps in the very woods, waiting for his dark chestnut horse and Minnie’s palomino pony to ride up that winding mountain trail to their untimely deaths. The men would be back, would wait in the woods, would stalk the house like a band of coyotes at hunt until it was done.

_ It would be suicide to stay. _

“Minnie, my love,” he said, brushing her hair away from her face, “We have to go. We can’t stay here.” She looked up, her eyes red, her face blotchy and smudged with ash and dust, the dirt on her cheeks streaked with fresh tears. 

“Why— What do you mean?” she asked, eyes wide, uncomprehending, her mind clouded with shock and grief.

“Last night, the men, before they left— ” he stumbled, trying to phrase his words in a way that would not cause her much alarm, while still making her understand the seriousness of the situation. He took a short, shaky breath and started again. “The men from the gang, they’re most likely going to come back at some point. It would be… safer… for us to go down to the town. We’re more vulnerable here.” 

Her eyes flickered, but she did nothing but not solemnly and, leaning on him for support, stood up. Her face tightened, her shoulders drew back, just like that first night, when she had sworn to defend the gold, and yesterday, when she had sworn to stand by him. It was the face of her quiet bravery, of her doing what she had to do to carry on. 

There was very nearly nothing left, he realised when he looked away from her finally to take in the absolute destruction that surrounded them. The northern and western walls of the cabin had been nearly obliterated, charred so badly that only the bare, black skeleton of the cabin’s frame remained standing; he doubted the strength of the timbers, wondering in the back of his mind about the risk of a collapse. 

Her little stove was left mostly undamaged, though it was blackened with soot nearly beyond recognition. The table and chairs were gone completely, as were many of her shelves and her rocking chair. The closet tucked into the far corner of the room was mostly gone, though several crates were still stacked against the less damaged eastern wall, the side they’d been on as the fire had consumed the rest of the house. 

The nightstand was charred and empty— the work of the infernal bandits, damn them all—, but still standing. Johnson caught Minnie’s eyes lingering on several shards of porcelain, all over the floor, the original snowy white now blackened by ash and soot. It took him a moment to identify it as the shattered remains of her pitcher and washbasin. He supposed that it could have been easily broken in the fire, but his gut told him that it had been shattered deliberately, simply as a measure of added cruelty. 

When Minnie caught him, too, staring, she stated simply, “It belonged to my mother… she gifted it to me just before I left Soledad.” The emotion heavy in her voice told him all he needed to know. 

They continued their painful journey around the cabin. Her bedframe, too, still stood, though the blankets had been badly burnt, only a pile of brittle and blackened rags remaining. Ash covered the shelves above her bed as well, coating her precious library like a dirty snow. Many of the books had been turned to ash themselves, and fragments of the delicate, burnt papers floated around the cabin. Other books had been damaged by the heavy smoke and the resulting fog and moisture that had crept into the open cabin.

Minnie picked up each intact book one by one, delicately inspecting the curling, greyed pages, some as fragile as a butterfly’s wing. Some she simply put back, others she cradled in her arms, tears rolling down her face throughout. She did not say a word. 

Though every instinct in Johnson’s body told him to get off the mountain as fast as he possibly could, he waited patiently for her to complete the ritual.  _ It was the least he could do, given that…  _ Sour guilt curled in his stomach.  _ It was the least he could do, given that he had, in every manner, caused the tragedy that now befell them.  _

In the closet, a pile of winter blankets had somehow survived, along with several crates of packed clothes. Discarding those on top scorched by hot embers and ruined by smoke, he and Minnie hastily packed all that they could— a careless mix of clothes, stockings, blankets and other worldly possessions, once meaningful, now just jumbled bits and pieces of a life shattered by violence. He realised after a moment that his guitar, too, was nowhere to be seen— stolen, burnt, it didn’t matter. And though the realisation ached like a punch to the stomach, he set it aside, knowing that whatever he felt, Minnie felt a million times over. He bit his tongue until he tasted hot blood in his mouth and continued stuffing a pair of woolen stockings into a knapsack they’d recovered. 

There came a point where there was little more to do. Everything that could reasonably be saved had been grabbed and stuffed into only two bags that they each now wore across their backs; to stay longer would have been both dangerous and miserable. There was nothing more for them here, though it pained him immensely to admit it, even to himself. 

Somewhere in his mind, a voice whispered that he had been running from the past for long enough, that it was cowardice to run once more. But he looked at Minnie, and knew it was his selfishness speaking. His own demons could wait. She was what mattered, here, now. He put his hands on her shoulders, and she automatically stepped into his embrace. Though he meant only to tell her it was time to go, her warmth pulled all other thoughts from his mind, and he felt himself clinging to her just as much as she held onto him. They stood together, surrounded by charred ruins and swirling ashes, with only each other in the universe. 

It took an eternity for him to find the willpower to whisper to her that they had to go. 

“I know,” Minnie replied, and neither of them moved, for a moment. They stood nearly eye-to-eye, foreheads pressed together. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend that none of it had happened, that it was a normal morning, that everything was okay. 

He opened his eyes, and the game was over, the illusion shattered. He dropped his arms and stepped back. 

Minnie remained for a second, tugging on her finger, before she sighed deeply. 

“Oh, Dick… what are we going to do?” she murmured. She took his hand, and he stroked her thumb soothingly. 

False comforts rose to his lips, hollow promises that it would all be okay, that everything would be alright, that the future was certain and hopeful as ever. He swallowed the lies down, choosing the bitter truth: “I don’t know.” 

She tilted her head up slightly, perhaps surprised that for once, he had no quick response, no clever witticism, no answer at all besides an admission of his own shortcomings, his own failures. He squeezed her hand instead, an unspoken promise:  _ I will stand by you, I am loyal to you, I will catch you when you fall.  _ She licked her chapped, blistered lips and put her head on his shoulder, and he hoped she understood. 

“Guns?” he asked, as they stepped out of the ruined house together. 

She nodded mechanically, tapping both the rifle on her back and her sternum, where her pistol was still concealed. “Yes, both. Yours?”

He nodded back, and there was little more to say. They stood at the edge of the clearing for a moment, surveying the damage for a final time. Wind blew, a clean spring wind, clearing the smell of destruction from the air. When he finally tore his eyes from the wreckage before them, he saw a tightness gathering in her face again. He expected tears to roll down her face once more, but instead, she opened her mouth and screamed. 

She let out the most chilling, heart-aching scream he had ever heard, a high, keening cry that seemed to ring through the mountains and valleys around them. It was a terrible song, a cry of loss and pain beyond any words, a scream of rage for the injustice of loss, for what the universe had taken from her. 

She sank to her knees, letting all of the sorrow and anger in her heart pour into the grey morning and echo into the unending sky above. The scream turned to a hoarse moan; after a moment he heard a quiet gasp. She knelt on the ground, and he stood, a silent sentinel during her one moment of absolute vulnerability. 

And then it passed; she seemed to compose herself.

“Let’s go,” she whispered tonelessly. And so they did. 

The fog was heavy and foreboding as they ran silently through the forest and down to the town far below. Droplets of water clung to his clothes and face, gathering and dripping off like tears. They ran without looking back, Minnie leading him like a blind man down the mountain she’d known for so many years. For the first time he saw not beauty but something dark and unforgiving in the towering pines, the way they crowded the sky, reaching out of sight into the low clouds. He could feel Minnie shaking as they ran.

His mind was racing, thundering with emotion. Fear, guilt and anger pulsed through his veins as they made their way down the mountain, a deep hatred towards his father and the gang for what they had done, and towards  _ himself, _ for letting himself love Minnie, for letting himself stay and put her in danger, for daring to pretend that he could ever escape what he was. He should never have loved her, should never have stayed, should never have even lived, for if he had just died on that mountain then Minnie would have been left alone, then the bandits would never have come to her cabin that fateful night, then none of this would have happened. She would have been safe, would have still had her books, and her cabin, and her happy, beautiful life, unburdened by him, free, joyful, and unafraid. This was his fault, entirely his fault. 

He was as unworthy of her love as she was unworthy of the pain and loss he had invited into her life by loving her. 

They ran hand in hand into the grey nothingness ahead. 

~~~

They emerged from the dense and treacherous forest on the very outskirts of the little town, when the world was just waking up. Miners were beginning to rise, birds chirped, and the odd rooster called to the quickly rising sun. Once out of the woods, Johnson started down the usual path, a main thoroughfare through the town. Before they got very far however, Minnie made a quick decision and pulled him astray, onto a less-used path that traced its way all around the town, avoiding the cabins, homes, and shops that dotted the town. 

When he shot her a look of confusion, she whispered only that she did not want to attract attention. It was the truth— she hated the thought of a spectacle. The thought of dealing with the sometimes rowdy and often tactless group of curious miners made her stomach churn. They made their quiet way through the small town until she pulled him again down one of the handful of other streets, on the other side of town from the miners’ camp. She could see the Polka clearly; besides the church and town hall, it was one of the largest buildings for many miles. 

As the front entrance of the Polka opened to the main thoroughfare of the town, they went in through the back door, leading into the bar. She stepped down into the main area, Johnson following closely.

It was immensely strange, she thought dazedly, to see the Polka in the light of dawn, for she rarely came down so early in the morning. It was only one more layer in the strange, awful dream that the day had been. The vast saloon area of the Polka, normally crowded with the vivacious and rambunctious miners, seemed to ring with silence, their shuffling steps uncomfortably loud in the empty, quiet room. Up the stairs they went, without a word, into the same cozy loft they’d waltzed in that very first night, now seen in an entirely new light. 

They collapsed onto the narrow benches lining the perimeter, the bags at their feet. She wanted little more than to sleep, but her mind was restless and racing and would permit no rest. Johnson, too, seemed deeply troubled. The same morning sun that burned away the fog hanging low in the sky now cast his face in the sharp angles of light and shadow, drawing out and dramatising the worry carved into his handsome features. 

Finally, to break the silence that was nearly as painful as the roar of the fire, she said quietly, “We should go to Nick’s, just for the morning… he can help. And I trust him completely…” Each word was sharp in her throat, her whispered voice hoarse from hours of smoke and tears. 

After a brief pause, Johnson nodded, and they set off into the morning once more. 

Nick’s house was a modest but rather pretty home in the centre of the small mining town. He was sitting on the porch with a coffee and a week-old paper from Sacramento when they arrived at his steps, and he looked up with a smile and opened his mouth to greet them. 

Minnie watched his grin drop abruptly from his face as he took in their appearances— Johnson, without his signature hat, his black work shirt streaked with mud and distinctly rumpled from sleep, and Minnie, in the same clothes he’d last seen her in, now also muddy and rumpled. He took in the ash, the dust, the smell of smoke, and the redness of her eyes.

“My god,” he said, setting down his coffee and inhaling in surprise. “What’s happened? Is everything all right?”

Emotion welled up in Minnie’s throat and she felt herself beginning to cry again. “Oh, Nick— ”

Deeply alarmed now, Nick turned to the door behind him, slightly ajar, and hollered in. “Verity? Verity, darling, please come out here!” There was an indistinct response from inside, and he turned back to face Minnie and Johnson.

“There was a fire,” Johnson explained gruffly, “last night— ” 

Verity popped her head out of the door in response to Nick’s summons, and her jaw dropped on seeing the couple at her doorstep. She rushed out of the house and down the steps. When she saw Minnie’s silent tears, she embraced her warmly, and Minnie felt her composure drop completely. She sobbed onto Verity’s soft shoulder as the fear and loss of the morning finally caught up to her once more. 

“Oh, Verity,” she cried, “it’s all gone, everything gone…” 

She heard Johnson and Nick talking, their voices low and disbelieving, and Verity’s soothing voice in her ear, but all was faint and muzzy compared to the sound of breaking lamp glass and the roar of fire filling her head and drowning every other thought out. 

Disconnected, floating, in an untouchable haze of grief, she felt herself idly guided to a seat on the porch. 

Eventually the tears stopped, as they always did. Her cheeks still wet, she wiped her eyes and tried to bring herself back into reality, in all its sharpness and cruelty. 

“...welcome to stay, of course, as long as you need to,” Nick was saying, as Verity nodded. 

“Our home is always open to you,” she added as she caught Minnie’s eye and smiled. 

The world was still spinning. Minnie looked over at Johnson, and was immediately caught off guard by the look of caution on his tired face— the tightness of his brow, the grave look in his eyes. Under the table, he took her hand in his and squeezed it tightly, trying to communicate a million thoughts, feelings, fears. 

“Nick, Verity, we both appreciate your offer, greatly. Your kindness is more meaningful… more valuable, to us, right now, than you can ever imagine.” He paused and looked at Minnie again, and she nodded slightly. Whatever he decided, she trusted his judgement. “But it would be… unwise for us to accept. We— I— it would be selfish of us to endanger you like that, to involve your family in any business with the gang.” 

Nick and Verity shared a look, and Johnson squeezed her hand again. 

A bird flew by and she stared idly, watching the bright forked tail of the bird in the rich morning sun. Her mind was a million miles away again, and though Verity was talking,  _ are you sure? It’s really no problem to us, we’re perfectly safe here in the town _ … she could not bring herself to follow. She found herself thinking of that first night with Johnson, the shock she had felt when he’d been revealed as Ramerrez. How silly and small it seemed now. How far they’d come. How things had changed. 

“You must at least go to Rance, then,” conceded Nick, and the mention of the name was enough to startle Minnie out of her lethargic musing. 

_ Rance _ . The name sent chills through her like nothing else. 

She’d told no one about the true extent of her fight with Rance that fateful night, the unforgivable things he had done— and tried to do— to her. Rance was well-respected among the men as honest and just, and she was certain that if she told Johnson, Rance would have a bullet through his chest before the next sunrise. So instead she’d kept it to herself, avoiding his eyes, those same eyes that had burned with lust and hate, eyes she would never see the same again. Rance, too, took measures to avoid her, initially shunning the Polka altogether before realizing that his avoidance was preventing him from fulfilling his basic duties as sheriff, and then he’d simply resorted to ignoring her. There were times, however, that she’d swear to herself she’d felt his eyes hot on her back, watching her darkly from across the room, but he always seemed to avoid her gaze directly. 

The notion of going to Rance, now, and begging him for help— it made her want to vomit all over the dusty planks of Nick and Verity’s porch, as they sat together in the midmorning sun. 

She shook her head tensely at the suggestion. “No, I can’t— I can’t go to him.”

Johnson nodded, and Minnie relaxed slightly with his agreement. “I agree with her,” he said, “Rance should not get involved. He still hates me, and I believe he’s waiting for a moment to put a rope around my neck should he get the chance.” 

Nick still shook his head. “Though he may be a scoundrel with a nasty grudge, he is still the sheriff. If the gang is back in town, he deserves to know, for all of our safety.”

But perhaps Verity had seen the fear and repulsion in Minnie’s eyes, or perhaps it was her motherly instinct that led her to place her hand on Minnie’s own. 

“It’ll be okay, Minnie, my sweet girl— ” 

Minnie pressed her free hand to her mouth to stop from crying again. 

“Minnie, love, nothing will happen. Rance daren’t do anything, not to you  _ or _ Johnson. But you must tell him about the bandits, because they tried to kill you, love. They tried to hurt you— kill you— ” Her voice trembled with emotion, but she continued, “And we can’t have that. Not here.” 

Minnie wiped her eyes again and nodded weakly, but the unpleasant feeling in her heart remained nonetheless. Her fingers twisted and played with her skirt nervously, picking off clumps of dried mud, passing over ash and scorch marks. She stared into her lap, gaze unfocused, and wished she was dreaming. No one to turn to, no safe options, a labyrinth with only dead corners in sight. Never had she felt so small, so helpless, like a leaf tossed around by a fierce wind, jostled and flung about without a care. 

~~~

The rest of the day seemed to pass in a haze. Each moment seemed to drag on infinitely long, yet as the sun sank into the horizon, Minnie found herself wondering where the day had gone. She recalled a buzz of voices, a silent dinner at the Polka, of wishing she could simply sleep and wake up in her own bed, Johnson curled next to her, the mountain birds chirping gaily, unafraid and cheerful. 

Their ride to the mountains only yesterday felt as though it had taken place years ago. She could recall only vaguely the warmth of the sun, and laughter— but the memory of the joy that had inspired it was absent, faded, gone. 

Late that night, they bedded down in the loft, side by side in borrowed bedrolls, after the blissfully unaware miners had departed for the evening. It seemed strange to sleep anywhere but her own bed, strange to not have Johnson’s warmth against her, strange to watch the moonless sky through the windows of the Polka. 

Dawn came, restless and new. She woke, eyes bleary and head aching, his arms around her, her head on his chest. He was still asleep, and she watched him rest, following the gentle motion of his breath, up and down, up and down. The smell of smoke lingered on him— on both of them— but beneath it she could smell  _ him,  _ leather and tobacco and the clean smell of pine around them. He seemed so calm, so at peace, and she drew strength from that, his serenity calming her down and allowing her to anchor herself.

When his eyes finally opened, he smiled when he saw her watching him. In the early morning light, her lips found his and she drank his kisses like fine wine, seeking comfort as much as answers, letting their drowsiness lend to the idea that it was all okay, that it had all just been a bad dream, that the golden light was reality and not the dream itself. 

But dreams alone could not sustain them, and she knew in her heart that she could not avoid what the following days were to bring. They did not talk over their brief breakfast, instead sitting in shocked horror as the reality of the previous nights set in. She was without a home, without possessions, and a serious attempt had been made of not only her life, but also the man she loved. She rested her head on his shoulder, watching dust float idly across the loft. Her mind fell back to ashes in the wind, and shivers crawled across her skin. Desperate to push away from the thought— desperate to remain composed— she turned to Johnson. 

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” she prompted. He shook his head, not meeting her gaze, his face still stoic and grim.  _ Just thinking _ . If ever there was a time when she’d needed his unfailing confidence, his belief in her and a bright future together, it was now. 

“Please, Dick, share your burdens with me, as I have so often done with you,” she said, lightly touching his arm when, still, he failed to speak. He turned to look at her, but his eyes were distant. “Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me what’s in your heart, please.”

He faltered for a second but did not say anything, his face grave, the look in his eyes that of a hunted animal— sad, wary, and exhausted. She had never seen him so shaken, not when he had been revealed as Ramerrez, not even when he had been shot. For once, he seemed at a loss, just as she was. But what had happened to the man who had known not only her heart, but his own as well, who could find words for emotions she had never even known? Had he too been burned away in the fire? 

“Oh, Dick,” she persisted, “do you remember the first night you came to the Polka? When you asked me if I knew what my heart felt, and you found words for what I couldn’t say— when you looked into my heart and told me the truth hidden inside. Tell me, now, tell me how you feel, please. Whatever you’re keeping in your heart is dark and bitter. Please, let me help you, let me soothe your pain.” 

Perhaps knowing that she would only continue if he did not respond, Johnson shook his head once more before finally speaking. 

“The fire troubles me. We were in danger,  _ you _ were in danger, and a great deal was lost...” Deep in thought, his voice trailed off. 

“Is that all, my darling?” 

“I...” For a moment, words seem to form on his lips, the answer, the truth that she sought, however terrible. But his fear seemed to hold him captive, and there was nothing but ringing silence once more. 

“That’s all,” he responded shortly, his voice gruff, though not unkind. For the first time since that night he’d been shot, when he’d lied about Micheltorena and Ramerrez, Minnie sensed that he was being untruthful. But he said no more, and Minnie, though unsatisfied, did not push any further. 

They finished their breakfast in silence. 

The meeting with Rance later that morning was short and tense. Little of personal nature passed between the three of them, though the feelings in the room were unpleasant. He took their story with little response, though Minnie swore she could detect just a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes, a look that seemed to say, _ You chose wrong, and look what’s happened to you now, dear Minnie _ . She squeezed Johnson’s hand under the table and tried to avoid his Rance’s thundering glare. 

At their parting, Minnie hesitantly asked for confidentiality and discretion on their behalf. Rance grunted noncommittally and, after a second, nodded. 

“Your word? That you’ll only say what’s necessary, and leave any details of us out?” she added. 

He promised her his word with a sigh and they departed. 

With that behind them, conversation seemed to come more easily on the short walk back to the Polka. Life continued all around them: miners heading to their posts, children chasing chickens down the dusty streets, women hanging laundry to dry in the warming spring sun. 

“Do you think he’ll keep his word?” Johnson asked casually. 

“Of course. He’s an honorable— ” she started to say, before stopping herself self-consciously.  _ Was he? _ He’d kept his word, leaving her and Johnson alone. But he was the one who had accepted her gamble on a man’s life, and her own— but the man had been a wanted bandit, after all, even if it had been against his morals. And there was the matter of what he had tried to do, how he had tried to— she shook her head.  _ Was he? _

She could only hope he was an honorable man, for he was both judge and jury in the small town, and his word was law. 

~~~

Each day was a little less of a dream. The wounds of the past few days were beginning to scab over, and it seemed that the long, slow healing had begun. Rance, much to Minnie’s mild surprise and supreme relief, had apparently kept the promise he’d made during their short, tense conversation; the men had heard of bandits nearby, but of no details directly regarding the incident with her and Johnson. 

It pained her to hear their speculation each night at the Polka, their wild guesses each like a punch in the gut, for she had to smile and laugh and put money in the till while ash blew down the mountain and swirled into the air from the ruins of her home, so far away. But the Polka was warm and cheery, and each night grew sweeter with the smell of wildflowers, and they were safe. 

She woke up early one morning several days after the fire and got ready quickly, pushing herself to return to some semblance of normality. Coffee, another cold breakfast. Well, it was less than ideal, but she planned on heading into town that morning to wash their clothes anyways. It would be of little extra effort to pass by the market on her way back. The plan, the structure— it was so small, but it seemed to be the first step in regaining the control she’d seemingly lost. The bandits could not take her drive, could not steal her spirit from her. 

The creek was cool, almost cold from the snowmelt oh-so-high in the mountains, and it bubbled around her ankles like a playful puppy. These errands, with the smell of grass and water by the stream, and the motion of her hands as she washed the smoke out of their clothes, were the beginning of putting her life back together— and rebuilding, brick by brick, timber by timber, a new life with him. Her work gave her strength and focus, allowing her mind to escape the stress of the previous days. While she washed, it all seemed to lay out in front of her, all falling back into place.

By the time she’d finished with the clothes, her hands smelling of the homemade soap, it was past noon. She left them to dry, sure that no bandit would dare disturb her blouses and stockings, and headed into town, the sun warm on her neck, her hair blowing lightly in the clean spring breeze. 

Her trip to the grocers was quiet, and she savored the rich, sweet smell of the produce, heavy in the warming spring day. Mixing with the grass outside and the smell of the timbers, the grocer’s store had the amazing power to remind her of the roadside inn she’d grown up in, in Soledad— the smell of her small, cozy bedroom loft, of her mother in the kitchen, of her father at the faro table. On leaving, she could not help but smile at the sunshine, ready to gather her laundry and return to the Polka.

It was already late afternoon when she finally stepped through the twin doors of her Polka. The men would be at the mines late, as they were most nights in spring— the days grew longer and the weather was cool, and so they took advantage of the earth’s prosperity as much as they could. 

Johnson was not in the main room, and so she proceeded up to the loft where they’d been staying. When she entered the room, his back was to her; he leaned over a table but turned around quickly as he heard her approaching footsteps. 

There was an indescribable look on his face— guilt? worry? sorrow?— as he stepped away. 

Her smile faltered. There was something off; something was wrong. Her gaze slid off of him and onto the table behind him: there rested his saddle, well-kept black leather gleaming in the late afternoon light, and a lumpy canvas knapsack. 

Confused, she looked back at him, but he’d pulled his face into a look of nonchalance and smiled at her, the smile not quite reaching his dark, handsome eyes. 

“How was it in town?” he asked, the question hanging awkwardly in the quiet air. Outside, horses whinnied and bugs hummed in the trees. She set her cloth bundle of laundry and a basket of onions, dried peaches, and a sack of coarse flour on a nearby bench. 

“Quiet,” she responded slowly. “The traders haven’t started coming up from Monterey yet.” 

He nodded. “See any blackberries yet?” he asked, a genuine smile growing on his face for the first time. She couldn’t help but grin, thinking of the very first time they’d met, when he’d encouraged her to stay, to linger, to pick berries along that sunny road with him… 

“Not yet,” she said. “Soon, though,” she added, as sweet as the dark berries. 

He sighed and nodded again, and her eyes wandered back to the table behind him. After a moment, he must have noticed her stare, for he turned and stepped towards her.

Taking her hands in his, he started, “Minnie, we should talk— ”

She looked at him carefully, trying to glean any sort of answers from his eyes. Something  _ was _ wrong. “Dick— what’s going on? What’s all this about?” 

“I think— ” his voice was suddenly tight, and he appeared to be choosing his words with great care— “I don’t think it would be wise to stay here anymore, my love.”

She shook her head slowly, refusing to believe what was happening. “No, we can’t— we’re safe here, we’ll be fine here.” 

Meeting his eyes, she saw the seriousness etched deeply into his face.“Yes,” he agreed slowly, and she felt momentary relief wash over her... “ _ you’ll  _ be safe here.” 

There was a beat of silence as she turned the words over in her head.

When it hit her, her head jerked up, panic and anger seizing her. 

“No— what do you mean—  _ no—  _ ” 

_ He couldn’t possibly— he wouldn’t dare—  _

“I can’t stay, Minnie. Not even here is safe for long. It would be wrong of me to— to continue to stay, to keep you in danger...” His face was filled with regret, the same look she’d seen when he’d first admitted he was Ramerrez, the look of a man who’d drawn a bad hand and could bluff no longer. 

“Mister Johnson,” she started, her voice rising as though to scold a naughty child, “you better be joking. Don’t you dare— ”

“Do I look like I want to, Minnie?” he said, his voice rising with hers to nearly a shout. “I  _ have _ to! I can’t— ” he broke off, perhaps surprised that he’d raised his voice as he did. 

“You’re a coward,” she whispered. He said nothing, the reluctant sadness in his tired eyes clear. When he placed a hand on her arm to draw her close— a goodbye— she sidestepped his reach and backed away, her heart twisting as shock and hurt flashed across his face. 

“You said forever. You said you wouldn’t leave.” She stepped closer to him again in challenge, her eyes flashing and her chin high with defiance. “You’re running away.”

“I’m not running away. I’m... I’m dangerous. You’ll be killed, or worse, should you be found with me, Minnie. These men, they will stop at nothing to kill me. To them, I’m a traitor, a wanted man…” 

“No, no, no…” Shaking her head, she struggled to put her frantic thoughts into words. “We’re safer together, safer with each other. We can protect— I can protect myself— ” She was as flustered as she’d been the very first night he’d come to visit her cabin, hot in the face, her mind overwhelmed by emotion. “I defended the gold, for so long, with my life— and I would do nothing less for you, you, the first man I ever loved, the only man I’ll ever love— ”

His face crumpled with emotion as the full effect of her words hit him. Minnie had always been a woman of her word, and when she spoke, it was with the full force of her heart.

“No, no, Minnie… Please, don’t...” Minnie could see he was struggling to continue. But when his dark eyes finally met her own, she saw nothing but the painful truth in his gaze. 

“I believe you— but you must also believe me when I say that I would rather die a million times over than have your blood on my hands. To have to live with the knowledge of the sorrow I’ve caused you yet pains me more than you can know— I would not be able to live if I knew that you died because of me. You deserve an honest man, a better man, a man who can walk beside you without the shame of his past, without a price above his head, without bearing the sins of his father…” 

The pain now was worse than any bullet wound, worse than any fire could burn. He was tearing her apart, ripping away the last thing she could hold onto. She could not bear to lose any more. So this is what he had kept from her, the terrible things he would not say. The guilt and fear that filled his heart were poisoning him from the inside out. 

“Please, please don’t say that— you know that I love you, that I’ll always love you, that you are the only man I could ever want. I can’t imagine a life without you by my side. This was not your fault,” she assured him, pleading with him to believe her, to forgive himself, to stay. “You don’t need to leave. You can’t.” Her voice broke with emotion. 

“Can’t you see? Why, why can’t you understand?” Leaning forward, he shook his head sadly, bitterness and hurt in his voice. “I have unfinished business with the gang, and they will not cease to pursue me until the score is settled. So I’m leaving to protect you, because I love you and I could never see you hurt… I’d sooner die than see any harm come to you.” 

She stepped closer to him, finally accepting his embrace as he put his arms over her shoulders protectively. “Don’t do this, Dick,” she protested weakly, but his touch seemed to pull all the anger out of her. His fingers toyed with her hair, tangling in the curls as he stroked her back gently. She held him, just as he held her, breathing in his scent, knowing she was safer in his arms than anywhere they could possibly run. 

“Minnie, my love,” he whispered, and her stomach dropped with dread as he kissed her forehead with a heartbreaking tenderness. “You know I have to.” 

He stepped away, breaking the embrace, even as she clung to him and her fading hopes of their future together. But there was the coat and the hat, worn like a black armor, carried like a leather and cotton shield, impenetrable and unreachable. Just like the day they’d first crossed paths, when he had seemed so kind, so entrancing, yet so quietly distant— 

“Please,” she begged him, feeling tears well into her eyes. 

But he only shook his head slowly, not looking up from the dusty floor. He turned without another word, starting down the narrow wooden staircase leading from the loft. 

“Coward!” she cried at his retreating back. “ _ Bastard! _ ” 

She gasped at her own voice and the deep anger behind her words. From the stairs, he looked up at her, defeated, his face cast in half shadow from the setting sun. Just below, the Polka was quiet and empty, devoid of any shouts or laughter, still waiting with open doors for the men to return from the mines, and her curse seemed to reverberate in the large, wood-paneled room. 

The sheer force of her anger— her desperation— seemed to break something in him; she’d never yelled, never even raised her voice in his presence before, except for that night, that very first night, when she’d screamed for him to leave. Now she begged him not to.

Oh, how fickle the heart! 

He put his black hat on, and his face, his beautiful face, was covered completely in shadow as he looked down, towards the doors and the uncertain future. He turned as though to continue away, down the stairs, gone forever. Minnie could do nothing but watch him, numb, as he looked up, blinking as his face was suddenly thrown into the rich afternoon sun shining through the dusty windows of the Polka. 

“I love you, Minnie. You are my angel. I will come back. I swear this on my life: I would die a thousand deaths before I ever hurt you.” 

He gave her a final, lingering look that made her heart ache.

And then he was gone, gone before she could react, gone in a flash of his black coat, gone forever: a betrayal of the worst kind. 

He’d promised her an eternity. _ And now he was gone _ . 

She’d given him her heart— her love— her everything— and in return, he’d run away forever. 

He had been a thief, after all. 

She sank against the wall in defeat, her tears falling freely now, and her eyes burned with gold as the sun sank into the purple mountains, filling the unending horizon with a flood of molten sunlight before slipping into darkness. 

  
  


The next time they would meet would be under a gallows, in the shadows of the rising sun, the rope around his neck— for he had told the truth when he’d promised that he’d sooner die than hurt her ever again. 

  
  
  



End file.
